


The Red Dianthus

by kinklock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (Mary is... gone. we don't know how), BAMF John, Case Fic, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Halloween, Haunted Houses, John 'I Don't Understand' Watson, Misunderstandings, Romance, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-17 00:50:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2290904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinklock/pseuds/kinklock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys investigate a mysterious disappearance in a supposedly haunted house, and get much more than they bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Halloween (which is really no time soon I realize, but I'm not chill about Halloween) I really wanted a spooky case fic with the boys and their lovely relationship issues, so I decided to do it myself. Beta'd by the lovely Solitary_Endeavor !
> 
> TW Note: There's something in this fic that could upset someone or possibly trigger them, but I can't really explicitly tag it without giving away possibly too much of the story. There's nothing graphic, but if this could be an issue for you, you might want to pass on it.  
> 

“ _The house is haunted, Mr Holmes._ ” 

“Sorry, what’s that?” John asks, flipping the top of his newspaper down to reveal his face. 

The pair had been passing a lazy Sunday morning in silence up until this moment, each in their respective chairs, however John found this interruption unsurprising given that their last case had been over a week and a half ago. 

With a dramatic sigh Sherlock repeats, “ _'The only explanation I can think of is that the house is haunted, Mr. Holmes.'_ The least boring email we’ve received in recent times.”

John’s hairline lowers giving the appearance of raised brows. He finds himself both skeptical and immediately pleased by Sherlock’s use of ‘we’ rather than ‘I’. 

“Well go on then, read it out to me,” John says, a smile tugging at his mouth and his newspaper now forgotten and placed on the side table. 

“ _'You’ll likely think I’m mad by the end of this, but I honestly don’t know what else to do or whom else to turn to. Two nights ago, Howard disappeared. He was in the house in the evening, sleeping in the living room, but the next morning he was gone without a trace. All the doors and windows were still shut and locked as they had been when I’d gone to bed for the evening, and no sign of a break in or him getting out. I’m beginning to believe, that is, I’m afraid that,_ “ Sherlock pauses momentarily to enact a wide eyed expression and hand flitting gesture, “ _the house is haunted.'_ ” 

“Right,” John says, leaning forward in his chair with a wry expression. “And since when are we paranormal investigators?” 

“Oh, come now John,” Sherlock says, matching him by leaning forward into John’s space, “we’ve done weirder.” He’s smiling devilishly, quirking one eyebrow, and his eyes seem to say they are sharing a marvelous joke. 

John is unable to resist beaming back at him, with an expression that is likely overly fond. But he’s allowed to look as fond as he wants, it doesn’t matter now if he gives it away. Sometimes he forgets that, it’s still all very new, he’s still settling into it. Some days he can hardly believe that Sherlock is his. Well. His boyfriend, he supposes, though they have never discussed labels. 

John’s been living in a blissed out daze since the beginning of this, this change in their relationship, from a near death experience on a case, to confessions, to heartfelt, chaste kisses. They haven’t moved much past kissing - John isn’t quite sure how to make the transition, and he wants to proceed as slowly as Sherlock needs, given his relative inexperience. 

John is still entirely unsure of what’s allowed. He’s been living in a dream from being allowed anything at all, and he’s wary of pushing their physical intimacy past what Sherlock is ready for. Instead, there are nights of John reading his medical journals while Sherlock lies with his head in his lap, or with his feet out to be rubbed. Breakfasts in the kitchen, catching the other looking, smiling back at each other like lovesick teens. 

John always waits for Sherlock to initiate contact, not wanting to scare him off. He’s so used to wordlessly communicating, being so in synch with Sherlock, that he doesn’t know how to ask, what to say. He’s good at doing. But he’s not good at this. This stuff.

Sometimes, after John has gone to bed, Sherlock will crawl in next to him. This, John doesn’t quite know how to interpret. He would be more than happy to sleep in the same bed every night, if Sherlock is interested in sleeping, but he always turns his back towards John, and John isn’t sure what it means. He only comes when he thinks John is already asleep. John wants to reach out to him, but does the turned back mean it would send him flying from the bed?

Sherlock clears his throat. 

Returning to the present conversation from where his mind has drifted, John snorts. “One might hope they’ve considered contacting the police with a missing persons report.”

“Ah,” Sherlock cries, holding a finger up in the air, “you might hope John, however the police don’t file those for dogs.” 

John resists the urge to grab the finger and bring it to his mouth. 

He however does not resist the urge to lower his hairline even further, if possible, while rolling his eyes at Sherlock’s usual antics of leaving out crucial information so that he can present it later as a grand reveal. 

While John may give the pretence of being annoyed, he still feels giddiness at Sherlock’s playfulness and at the promise of something new and ridiculous. 

Their feet are pushed out from their chairs, slowly nearing each other, and John wonders how Sherlock would react to a bit of early morning footsie. 

“A dog named Howard? Right. Yeah. I guess unusual pet names go hand in hand with believing in ghosts, why didn’t I see that one –“

“I want to take the case,” Sherlock interrupts, leaning back with a sudden seriousness that is in stark contrast to his lighthearted demeanour from not a moment ago.

His eyes appear slightly glassy and he avoids John’s gaze, and John, as he often does, feels as though he is missing something. He is at once reminded of Sherlock mocking the little girl’s case about Bluebell the glowing rabbit, but then later questioning the scientist on the subject once they were at Baskerville. 

John feels somewhat less lost. 

“Family pets? Well, now we’re getting somewhere,” John murmurs taking the newspaper up again. 

“Sorry, what?” Sherlock inquires clicking the ‘t’ sound. 

“Nothing. Well, even if it does sound like a hoax, haunted houses and all that, I suppose you can’t resist a locked-room anything, can you?” 

Sherlock’s reply drifts over as he begins tapping a response on his phone. 

“Evidently not.” 

+

Their client was unsurprisingly eager to resolve the disappearance of her dog, so shortly after having her email read out to him, John is ushered out of the flat by Sherlock to an out-of-ways residential area, and a very altogether ordinary looking one-floor bungalow. 

This wasn’t exactly what John had expected a haunted house to look like, which is to say he was beginning to suspect they’d come a long way for nothing. And he hadn’t even gotten to finish reading the newspaper. 

As they start to walk up the entrance pathway, Sherlock’s eyes are moving rapidly across the exterior of the house suggesting he’s memorizing it. In the past, Sherlock might have not come at all, instead putting his ‘best man’ on the job to take photos and report back. Admittedly, considering this makes John feel less wistful for the Sunday lie-in. 

Before they even reach the door it swings open to reveal a smartly dressed middle-aged woman, who from a first look appears quite sensible, if not a bit frayed around the edges. 

“Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,” she says quickly, “I can’t tell you how happy I am that you didn’t write me off immediately.”

“Dr Davenshaw, I presume?” Sherlock offers his hand and an affected smile, though the latter had been growing less fake as of late. 

“To say the least your description was… intriguing.”

She smiles tightly, and ushers them through the door into the foyer. John notes there is a kitchen to the left, a hallway straight ahead, and a living room on their right. 

She leads them into the living room, where John takes a seat on the couch across from their hostess, who has lowered herself into an armchair while Sherlock begins circling the room. 

Sherlock seems to consider sitting on the couch next to John, but instead climbs over the coffee table and continues his wandering. Dr Davenshaw eyes him momentarily with curiosity, before quickly understanding it is to John she should direct her account. 

“When a dog goes missing, people just tell you to put up flyers. But I know Howard was in the house when I went to bed, and I know everything was shut up tight. I live alone now that my daughter’s away at university, and I’m very fastidious about home security. I just don’t know how to explain it,” she says, with an intense earnestness that makes John reassess the likelihood of all this being a hoax.

“Frankly, I’m terrified in my own home,” she concludes, looking across at John entreatingly. 

John tries to look as sympathetic as possible, and as Sherlock has drifted out of the living room into what is presumably the connecting hallway, realizes he’ll need to take the reins of the interview. 

“And you’re sure, er, Howard was in the house that night when you went to sleep?” he asks, trying to not sound too doubtful. 

“I’m absolutely positive, he was fast asleep on the rug when I turned in,” she says, nodding towards a rug on the floor near what looks to be a closet and the door to a bedroom at the other end of the living room. 

“And, did anything happen that night? Anything out of the ordinary? Hear anything, maybe?” John hopes that Sherlock will be gracing them with his presence again some time soon. 

“Howard may have barked, but then he often does in the night. He’s been extremely agitated lately, constantly barking at nothing. He’s been acting mad, actually. I know, as in I realize this isn’t very good, but I’ve even been sedating him when he gets too out of control and I desperately need to sleep. Usually he keeps me up, but not that night.” 

John is about to ask if it’s normal for pet owners, even if they’re doctors, to sedate animals, but Sherlock swiftly reenters the living through from the foyer. He must have circled the whole bungalow and is clearly ready to unleash a tirade now that he’s returned. Sherlock begins to pace back and forth in the space between John and their client. 

“Dr Davenshaw, even working as a vet only part-time, this house is somewhat below your income bracket, a one floor house that’s clearly been renovated more than once, I would say exactly three times, with the cost likely outweighing the benefit. It’s not near where you work, so one must assume sentiment. Emotionally attached to the house itself?” he asks as he abruptly turns, startling Dr Davenshaw. 

“Maybe, but then why so quick to blame the house and its supposed hauntedness for your recent dilemma? No, someone else’s sentiment, whose wishes you respect. Your late husband’s I suspect, whom I’ve noticed in several family photographs around the living room.”

John quickly looks around to realize there are several photos in frames on two of the side tables, which Sherlock must have seen when he first entered the room. They seem to be of the family, and Sherlock is correct, along with Dr Davenshaw, there is a man and a younger girl who must be their daughter in most of the photos. There are also additional pictures of her husband and his family members in his younger years. John imagines this is what really led Sherlock to the conclusion that the house was his family home. 

John wars between being impressed (as he always is) and disapproving of the abrupt mention of a late husband to a woman who has recently lost a pet. 

Sherlock quickly continues. “However, it’s clear you and your family only moved in within the last year. The house was likely then his family home, which he inherited and couldn’t part with. You could have left to avoid likely painful memories of your husband, but remain here out of your devotion to his attachment to the house.”

Dr Davenshaw seems momentarily taken aback, but this must be in line with her expectations as she quickly recovers. 

“Yes Mr Holmes, that is all spot on. After his mother died he insisted we move into the old place, and as our daughter was leaving soon, the reduced size was less of an issue. I was cutting back on my clinic hours as well, and selling our place worked financially.” 

Dr Davenshaw pauses to smile grimly. “So yes, all correct, however, how does any of that help find Howard?” she asks. 

John thinks this is rather an excellent point and shoots Sherlock an eyebrows raised ‘get on with it’ look which earns him an irritated glance. 

“You said the only possible explanation was that the house is haunted. You seem a very reasonable person, and not prone to superstition. What would make you suspect such a thing?” Sherlock returns to his pacing, which John can tell is rapidly turning into his usual deduction performance art. 

“Conclusion: there’s something you aren’t mentioning, there have been more odd events than just Howard’s disappearance. However, you only sought out help now, meaning these things didn’t distress you enough to act previously. What those odd incidents might be I haven’t the faintest, but I have a strong suspicion they are related to your very recently deceased husband,” Sherlock concludes, in his usual rapid-fire pace. 

John’s rapt attention shifts from Sherlock to Dr Davenshaw for confirmation, and judging by her expression, this hits home. 

Sherlock’s movements cease and his voice takes on a softer quality when he speaks again to say, “I suppose one might not mind odd things happening when you think it’s your loved one’s ghost.”

Dr Davenshaw, who had largely been composed up until now, looks as though she is about to break down into tears, but holds herself together admirably. 

Sherlock quickly passes her a tissue box from the coffee table, which she pulls from to dab at the corner of her eyes. Sherlock glances back at John and smiles tenuously. John smiles back slightly. ‘Yes, that was good’. 

After taking a moment, Dr Davenshaw stands from her chair. “I’ll show you,” she says, passing to the end of the living room to open the door to a bedroom. 

She returns with a book, a plain beige journal, which she hands to Sherlock. Sherlock moves to the couch to sit next to John, which John is immediately grateful for as he is dying with curiosity. 

Sherlock flips open the journal to reveal a single pressed red flower between the pages. “A red dianthus,” Sherlock says. 

He turns the page to find another, and another. The entire book it seems is filled with them. 

John has no idea what that is, but regardless he and Sherlock both look to Dr Davenshaw questioningly. 

“Very good, Mr Holmes. It was a tradition of sorts. Charles, my – my husband, he would leave me a single flower, more recently it was always a red dianthus from the garden, whenever they started to wilt. He’d leave them for me in the kitchen when he left for work before me,” she says lowly. 

Sherlock quickly swings his gaze to John with his usual ‘we both know what’s going on’ look, which John parries with his ‘don’t do that, I have no bloody clue’ look. 

John directs his attention back to Dr Davenshaw. “So these are keepsakes then, of the ones your husband used to leave you?”

She hesitates, and moves to sit down again in the chair across. 

“Some of them are,” she replies, clasping her hands in her lap.

“How long have you been receiving these dianthuses?” Sherlock asks in a low voice.

“My husband left one on the day he died and. Well, Mr Holmes, they’ve been continuing ever since.” 

A shiver runs down John’s spine, which he immediately wills to stop. 

Was she honestly saying…? 

Not for the first time since beginning this case, John feels completely out of his depth. 

He shares another quick glance with Sherlock, and at last they are on the same page, both clearly wondering _‘And receiving flowers after your husband’s death didn’t ring alarm bells because...?’_

John is relieved when Sherlock verbalizes this for him by asking, “You never thought to question the dianthuses before?“

“Who would I tell, and what would I say? I didn’t want to scare my daughter – she’s just started school, and I wouldn’t want her coming back over something I can’t explain. I thought – well, you already think I’m silly, so what more harm could it to do? – I thought it was Charles’ ghost looking after me. I just felt I knew it was him, something you just know when you’re, were, close to someone,” she says, pausing again to collect herself. 

John feels Sherlock’s attention on him momentarily, but when he glances at him quizzically, Sherlock has already turned away. 

“Am I correct in assuming your husband’s ghost would have no motive for making your dog disappear?” Sherlock asks, with more care in his tone and phrasing than John would have been capable of. 

John isn’t sure when he will stop being surprised by this new, more conscientious Sherlock, a Sherlock who can see that a woman grieving might need to believe all sorts of things to keep going. 

She shakes her head, and looks on the verge of tears once more. 

“Are you suggesting that you no longer believe this to be the work of your husband’s spirit?” Sherlock asks, again with a surprising amount of consideration. 

“Yes. Or, like I said, I can’t account for anything at all any more. It’s more than just, the flowers, I feel, oh I don’t know how to explain it,” she breaks off in frustration. 

“What? What can’t you explain?” Sherlock asks, pitching his voice to be low and soothing. 

“I can feel eyes on me. I feel like someone is watching me in this house. I can’t shake the feeling. It isn’t like before when I thought I had a guardian watching over me, Charles still with me. It’s not like that at all any more. The reason I had you come over so soon I confess is, I’m leaving. I can’t stay in this house on my own another minute,” she says, fraying at the tissue in her hand absentmindedly. 

“I’m going to stay with a friend. I’ve told the neighbours to keep an eye out for Howard if he does turn up, if somehow he got loose. If you’re interested in taking my case, I’ll leave you the keys to the house and whatever else you’ll need, but I need to get away from this place.” 

John looks to Sherlock expectantly. While John’s certainly intrigued, he and Sherlock aren’t exactly ghost hunters, and there’s not much else to be going on. 

Sherlock turns his head slightly towards John, visibly searching for approval. 

Well, as Sherlock had said, they’d done weirder cases before. 

John nods his head slightly once. 

“We’ll take the case Dr Davenshaw, please leave the keys with us.” 

She smiles back at both them tremulously. 

\+ 

“Why did I think you asking for the house keys meant we were going to go into the house, rather than sit outside it in the cold in some bushes?” John gripes, aiming for annoyed but mostly sounding resigned. 

They are currently crouched side by side across the street from their haunted house on what Sherlock likely imagines is a grand stakeout. 

“If someone was regularly breaking in to leave the dianthuses, they must be doing it overnight, taking them from the garden, and we need to catch them in the act,” Sherlock says in return. 

“Just me here, talking to myself,” John mutters, “sitting on my bad leg.”

Sherlock turns away from peering through the foliage to give him an exasperated expression. “For God's sake John, that was psychosomatic.” 

“We don’t have a car, we can’t actually do a real stakeout. There’s no sign of anybody. Why don’t we go into the house, quickly, quietly, keep the lights off, and wait in there, hmm?” John says, beginning to rock back and forth to get the feeling back into his legs. 

“What if they don’t enter the house?” Sherlock whispers back. 

“You just said yourself, whoever or whatever’s leaving flowers goes in the house, they must do, so if they follow the usual pattern we can’t miss them,” John ends this with a breathy exhale, and proceeds to rub his cold hands together.

Sherlock looks like he’s caught something he never plans to let go, so, in a word, delighted. 

“Not flowers John, dianthus, and whoever or _whatever_? My Dr Watson, has this got you believing in ghosts?” 

John immediately flushes. “Can we just get in the damn house now please?”

“Certainly, now that you’ve convinced me,” Sherlock says, standing up abruptly, looking around them, and then swiftly making his way across the street. 

John follows suit. 

Sherlock lets them into the house and shuts and relocks the door, as per John’s suggestions, quickly and quietly. 

Out of habit, Sherlock hands the keys to John once he’s finished, which John pockets. The hallway straight ahead from the front door, which had seemed mostly kitschy with its old weathered wallpaper during the daytime, now looks more ominous than it has any right to be. 

The foyer is partially lit by a soft light coming from in the kitchen. John moves to the doorway to see the fridge has been left slightly ajar. Which is. Odd. He closes it, and somewhat regrets removing the light source. 

“Now what?” John whispers in the dark.

“What do you mean now what?” Sherlock responds, as he moves into the living room. “We’re waiting that’s what. Coming in here was your idea.” 

John’s eyes begin to adjust to the darkness so that he can see the interior of the living room. Sherlock begins moving about the room towards the side table which hosts the family picture frames on it, where he pauses.

“That’s strange,” he murmurs.

“What?” John asks, feeling slightly on edge in the dark house, and annoyed at himself for it. 

“The photos, some of them have been flipped down,” he says as he flips them back up. “They were … not like this when we were here earlier today.”

“Why would she flip them down?” John is starting to feel... agitated. “She was leaving immediately.”

“Yes, most peculiar,” Sherlock says sounding puzzled, which to John is never a good sign. 

“The garden’s on the other side of the house, if we’re going to watch for anyone snooping in it, shouldn’t we be over there?” John suggests, wanting to get away from the turned down photos, and back to feeling like they were doing something within his grasp. 

John walks through the living room to peer down the connecting hallway, which extends past the other entrance to the kitchen, a door on the left, likely leading to a washroom, and an open door at the end that looks like another bedroom. 

John feels watched. 

“You did a walk through of the place earlier, does the daughter’s bedroom have an okay view of the garden?”

“Good enough for our purposes,” Sherlock murmurs, sweeping past him down the hallway. 

John hurries to catch up. On entering the bedroom, he moves past a desk and the end of the bed to see out the window. Sherlock stands further back, likely so there aren’t so many faces peering out. 

John sighs. “Well, nothing new going on in the outside world since last we checked.”

“Are you a bit nervous, John?” Sherlock asks, quietly and obviously amused.

“Ah, no, why would I be nervous?” John responds a little too stiffly. 

Sherlock moves in closer. “Because a dog’s gone missing in this house, dianthus from the garden are appearing within, the photos have been turned down, and the walls apparently have eyes – “ Sherlock speaks hurriedly in a mocking, lilting voice. 

“Okay, okay, that’s rather enough, it’s ridiculous, you think I don’t know that? Obviously there’s no bloody ghost – “

A sudden noise breaks through the quiet of the house, both men jump and John is on edge, in ready-for-battle mode. He immediately reaches for Sherlock and angles his body to cover him from the direction of the sound. Sherlock scrambles to grab him back, and they stand still in silence on high alert for a long moment.

After a beat, John relaxes. 

“Only the house settling,” he murmurs leaning further back into Sherlock, where he is still grasping John’s arm from behind until John feels him pressed up against his whole back. 

To John’s immense surprise, Sherlock is hard. 

A flush goes up John’s neck and he feels immediate stirrings in his own crotch in response. 

“Mm, I guess we both like a bit of danger, don’t we?” John whispers. 

Sherlock’s embarrassment feels almost palpable when he begins stammering. 

“No, I – I, it’s just-“ he breathes in, “you moving in front of me. Like that. That was. Good.”

John smirks to himself before turning around. 

“Yes. That, and you’re also a bit of a -” he pauses, not entirely sure what he’s doing or saying, “- a danger slut,” he says feeling brave enough to reach out and run his hand down Sherlock’s chest, looking up at him in the little light afforded to them.

A full shiver runs through Sherlock’s body. 

Likes a bit of name calling then, John thinks. A bit of dirty talk. Now we’re getting somewhere. 

Sherlock leans into his touch and makes a noise somewhat akin to a moan. 

“Takes one to know one,” he whispers back.

“Very mature Sherlock Holmes, are you about five years old,” John murmurs, continuing to rub his hands down Sherlock’s sides. “You’re the one that said I looked about 12, but that I was undeniably charming anyway – what does that say about you, I wonder?” Sherlock delivers breathlessly, entirely falling short of haughty. 

“I don’t think I said ‘undeniably,' and do you actually have my blog memorized?”

Sherlock looks as though he would have retorted more, but John takes his opportunity to lean further into his space and cup his chin in his hand and to whisper fervently, “If you don’t let me touch you right now Sherlock I swear –“ 

Their lips meet before he can finish and the next thing John knows he is kissing Sherlock hard and sloppy, and it’s hotter and messier than he’s ever kissed anyone in his life. 

He rubs his hands up Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock is still somehow managing to grip his forearms, until he reaches up to pull Sherlock’s scarf out of the way enough to suck at his neck, as he’s always, always wanted to. 

“Mm, John, necking in a client’s house in their daughter’s bedroom,” Sherlock murmurs, re-gripping John’s upper arms tightly, “Excuse me, a client’s haunted house –“ 

“I don’t give a damn if the ghost wants to watch,” John growls into his neck, causing Sherlock to start a laugh that is quickly cut off by John’s mouth. 

All John can think, apart from getting his mouth on more of Sherlock, and grinding up against his erection, is that this is what they had needed, their lives were always about drama, danger, excitement, all they’d needed to take this step from chaste early-beginnings sweethearts to lovers was a moment like this, out of their home routines, back in the action –

Sherlock suddenly emits a muffled cry, and pulls back from the kiss and John, who only has a moment to be startled before feeling a large crack to the back of his head, and –

–  
–

John wakes up to an intense throbbing in his head and blearily opens his eyes to sunlight streaming in through a nearby window. 

He’s disoriented, forgets where he is, but in a moment he remembers – Sherlock. 

The case. He reaches to his side where he can feel Sherlock’s scarf and hair. 

“Sherlock – “ he starts. The dark hair is - 

John whips his hand back in alarm and covers his mouth. 

Next to him on the floor is a dog with curly dark hair and the scarf he’d removed from Sherlock’s neck last night. 

A dog. 

He reaches out to feel its neck. He presses down.

The dog is dead. 

John hauls himself up off the floor, and moves straight for the front door, through the kitchen, his hand on the knob – 

The door is still locked. 

The house keys are heavy in his pocket. 

There had been a flower on the kitchen table.

He yells Sherlock’s name. No answer.

He walks through the living room. Nothing. 

He throws open Dr Davenshaw’s bedroom door. Nothing. 

He moves back down the hallway. 

Through the kitchen again. 

Through the hallway between the kitchen and the living room. 

He checks the windows. He checks all the windows. 

They’re all shut and latched from the inside.

The windows are shut, the front door is locked, there’s a bloody dianthus on the table, there’s a dead dog on the floor, and Sherlock. 

Sherlock is gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely conductor_of_light !

John’s restless pacing along the footpath is thankfully interrupted by Greg and two other officers pulling up in the driveway.

“John, alright there mate?” Greg asks stepping out of the car. His eyes are immediately drawn to the scarf hanging from John’s hand. 

“No. Not alright,” John responds. He hasn’t been able to stay in the house. Waiting for the police felt like centuries. Every moment of him doing nothing–

“Don’t worry,” Greg says, walking over to clap him lightly on the shoulder. “You know what he’s like. He probably swanned off somewhere. Got out of the house to chase after something, who knows how.”

“If you don’t believe me, why did you come out all this way?” John’s voice is high and tight, and he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care if it’s obvious that he’s at the end of his tether.

“Hey, hey, I didn’t say that.” If Greg is trying to placate him, it doesn’t work.

“It’s unlocked,” John says to the officers hovering behind their boss’s back. They take the hint.

“And he hasn’t been answering his mobile?” Greg asks, concern for John, not Sherlock, etched in features. John feels a right arse for not feeling more sympathetic for Dr Davenshaw. This house makes people seem mad.

“No. Calls aren’t going through, I think it’s likely out of battery. He probably thought he’d be able to recharge it this morning.” John doesn’t like to think about what that meant, about where Sherlock is that he couldn’t charge his mobile, which was essentially an extension of his being.

“And no one’s seen him?” Greg questions, even though they had covered all of this already over the phone.

“Mrs Hudson says he hasn’t been back at the flat. She even went up to check, on my insistence. Molly says he hasn’t been by Bart’s, and Wiggins says he hasn’t asked him or any of the homeless network for any favours.”

“What about his bolt-holes?” Greg continues, still dedicated to the notion of an easy answer, all of which John has already considered multiple times.

“And why the hell would he go to one of his bolt-holes?” John seethes through his teeth.

Greg looks surprised, but not overly so. 

“Sorry,” John murmurs, looking away.

The other officers have already moved inside and John motions for Greg to do the same. He continues to observe John with obvious consternation for a moment longer before following suit.

The last thing John wants right now, or ever, is to go back into that house. And only just yesterday, he’d thought the place looked too ordinary. John turns away from the front door, only to catch a glimpse of the red flowers along the side of the house. His fist tightens on Sherlock’s scarf, and he heads back inside.

The two officers are clearly searching the bungalow for other signs of entry but there isn’t much house for them to sweep. John moves down the main hallway, avoiding the kitchen where a single dianthus still sits on the table, and joins Greg in the daughter’s bedroom.

“Well, that’s a damn shame,” Greg remarks, eyeing the dog sadly.

“Yeah,” John replies, still feeling dazed. “On the bright side, I got to tell our client we found her dog.”

Greg looks at him sharply. He’s less familiar with John being the insensitive one.

“Uh right, and where is the pet and house owner anyway?”

“I called her while I was waiting - she says she’ll come pick up Howard. Plans to get him cremated apparently,” John looks down at the dog, feeling somewhat guilty for his earlier comment. “I think she’s not moving back in here any time soon.”

“Wouldn’t blame her, would you? What with someone killing your dog and then electing to drop him off again.“ Lestrade shuffles his feet, obviously considering how to break something to John lightly. John is already offended by the anticipated coddling before Greg even opens his mouth.

“Look, someone’s obviously getting into the house somehow, some way. We get these sometimes. Neighbours get sick of hearing a barking dog all the time, finally snap. Mind you, they don’t normally knock a guy out when returning the dead body but well, I live to be surprised. “

John bristles at Greg’s tone more than anything else. He hasn’t bloody lost it, for God’s sake.

“And how exactly do you propose they got in and got out again?” John asks, smiling his tight, sardonic smile. If Greg’s theory was the case, it was the kind of thing only Sherlock ever knew, and he was. Well. God only knows where.

“Presumably, the same way Sherlock got in and out with them. Look, John,” Greg begins to lead John out of the room, likely thinking that moving further away from a dead animal might help defuse the situation.

The hallway is tight, cramped with just him and Greg. The whole house is cramped. The area they’re standing in is softly lit from the bedroom and living room, and John can see dust in the air. He wants to search for discrepancies, clues, anything, things Sherlock would know to look for and know how to interpret. Had that picture been hanging crooked when he’d rushed through here this morning?

“John, listen mate,” Greg speaks in a low voice, as if trying to not to startle a wild animal. “I know you’ve got knocked in the head and are probably a bit disoriented, and got a little turned around by everything, and I know you’re worried about him, but isn’t the most logical answer right in front of you?”

“You think he left without me,” John states in a flat tone.

Greg winces slightly but lifts his shoulders in resigned agreement. “He’s done it before, hasn’t he?” He points out in the same appeasing voice. 

John’s throat feels as tight as the hallway. Sherlock has left him before. At crime scenes, and outside of hospitals. Leaving him in every sense of the word, leaving him believing he’s– Would he do that though? Leave him unconscious with a dead dog? Only to wake up to find himself alone and wondering, sick, absolutely sick with worry, what had happened to him, and where he’d bloody well got to, is that something– were they still at that stage? Would he have done that? How could he have done that?

Greg starts again, softly, ”I just think it’s likely he’s–“

John’s fist slams into the opposite wall with a resounding, hollow thud, causing Greg to flinch. 

“He wouldn’t, God help me, I know he wouldn’t. He’s... we’re–“ John, to his own mortification, almost has to choke back a sob “We’re together now. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t do that.”

The look Greg gives him is part mild surprise at the news he likely considers to not be news, and part ‘poor bugger’.

John can feels his eye muscle twitching and wills it to stop. He doesn’t need Greg’s sympathy and he doesn’t need to hear how weak his own protests sound. 

“That’s, well, first of all– gosh, really? Finally! But this isn’t meant cruelly, John, you know that. He gets into his own head, forgets about the rest of us. I’m sure he’ll be back, and with an explanation for all of this,” Greg says, motioning back to the bedroom.

John laughs, sounding nothing like laughter.

“You’re definitely right about one thing, if he was here, he’d have figured something out. Likely all of it by noticing some minute detail– “ John abruptly stops.

Minute details.

A hollow sound.

When he’d hit the wall, it had made a hollow sound. 

He knocks on it again to be sure. Something is behind it, or rather, something isn’t behind it, and of course there must be. He has never seen the back of the house but of course it would be extended to the same depth as the bedrooms on either side of it.

What’s behind the wall then? There are parts of the old wallpaper that have come loose. John starts to pull them off in pieces.

“Uh, John, what are you– christ, have you and him swapped personalities?” Greg asks, now really looking at John like he’s lost it but also not stopping him from continuing his assault on the frankly awful decor. If Sherlock was here, he’d have snarkily commented that removing the wallpaper was doing the homeowner a favour.

John tears it off in large strips, moving along the hall towards the kitchen entrance and main hallway. He finds it, whatever it was that he had been looking for, which in this case turns out to be an edge. An edge that is clearly part of what was once a door.

And doors lead to rooms.

John is feeling for the edge and pulling the wallpaper away from it completely. The door obviously hinges inwards, to open it he has to do is find where the knob had once been–

“Oi, boys, you better come have a look at this!” Greg calls to the officers in the living room. He looks very relieved that John is in fact onto something and that forceful removal of him from the house would not be required. 

The edge of the door had been sealed over and the knob had been removed and covered, but after removing more of the paper and jamming his pocketknife into the filled-in knob the door starts to give.

John holds his breath, pushes in, and swings it open.

The room may as well be a black hole in comparison to the soft light in the constricted hallway and Greg has to shine a torch through the doorway just for them to see inside it. John forges ahead across the threshold.

The floor creaks as John enters. At first the room seems entirely barren, until John can make out a rusty old bedframe to the left of the entrance. On the far side of the door he can also see floor length curtains that have seen better days, hanging where there may have once been a window. Nothing much else inside.

“Well, it’s a tad creepy I’ll grant you that, but not much of a lead is it?” Greg comments, swinging his light throughout the room. The officers peer in but seem visibly unnerved by the room. John suspects they think this entire job must be a favour their boss is doing for a friend. They’re not wrong.

John moves around the room looking for, well he’s not sure what, but Sherlock would have looked for something. Something to tell him more.

He throws back the old curtains hanging on the wall. Dust spills out into the air, sending him into a coughing fit, but there’s nothing behind the curtains.

It’s just an empty room. A secret, hidden room but an empty room nonetheless. John isn’t sure what he expected.

“Hopefully, Dr Davenshaw doesn’t mind us uncovering this treasure,” Greg says through his own coughing fit. The other officers still haven’t entered the room and clearly think it’s about time to leave. Greg motions with a tilt of his head and they clear out. He moves further into the dark room to stand next to John.

It’s silent beyond what John realises is his own laboured breathing. 

“I think it’s about time we interviewed a few of the neighbours, see if we can learn anything about this dog’s disappearance. Usually someone’s heard something, seen something,” Greg appears to consider touching John’s shoulder but quickly decides against it.

“Without any description of a suspect beyond a dog killing ghost, there’s not much else I can do. But, you know, I appreciate it when you call me about these things, alright?”

John inhales steadily. “Greg, the doors were locked. And the only set of keys are the ones I have. “

Greg sticks his hands in his coat pockets, shrugging his shoulders. “Maybe he crawled out of a window?”

“Why would I get knocked unconscious from behind, and then Sherlock crawl out of a window instead of opening the front door?”

“What are you suggesting then?” Greg asks, rocking his weight back on his heels.

John would rather not say.

Greg’s brow furrows, clearly mulling something over. His mouth opens as if to begin speaking but then clicks shut.

At this point John’s patience is non-existent. “What? What is it?”

Greg’s eyes drift to the side as he mumbles, “Er, nothing, really–“

“What were you thinking just now, because honestly, I am all out of ideas.” John is once again smiling grimly except now it’s in an old, hidden room that has led to absolutely nothing.

“Well, it’s just… My now ex-wife, she used to go to this psychic– “

John’s face must have spoken volumes because Greg quickly amends this with “Okay, okay, yes, I know that’s all a bit ridiculous and I’m not saying I think this is– what your client thinks it is– but this woman, she just knew things. It was uncanny, some of the stuff would really amaze you. Sort of like him, you know?“

John could have done without the mention of Sherlock.

“She even predicted our divorce–“ John bites the inside of his cheek from saying that wasn’t a hard deduction and is luckily successful “–anyway, do you want me to give you her contact info or what?”

John tries to breathe in deeply and struggles. They are standing in an unsettling little room with nothing in it, in the dark, and John can barely breathe in this house. A voice in his head won’t stop repeating the last time something disappeared in this house, it turned up dead.

“I should tell you to fuck right off.”

Greg nods and begins to move from the room.

“But as of right now, I’m at the end of my rope. What’s the bloody number?”

+

A visit to Baker Street confirms there have been no signs of Sherlock. In a fit of desperation John even pays off the homeless network to check the damn bolt-holes. Absolutely nothing.

Which is how John finds himself, once again, outside of what appears to be a perfectly average looking residence for a place that has a supposed supernatural reputation.

Instead of a bungalow, a block of flats. The door is answered by a petite, older woman, who wouldn’t look out of place having tea with Mrs Hudson.

He was consulting a psychic, God help him.

“Would you prefer standing in the doorway or coming inside?” she asks pleasantly.

“In, I suppose,” John answers, passing through the door and into a small, eclectic kitchen. His shuffling host, whom he has been informed goes only by Madame Glinda, leads him through an entrance framed in hanging beads into a cozy living room.

She sits quietly at a small folding table and motions for John to sit across from her. Tea has already been prepared and set out. He might as well be visiting Mrs Hudson.

It isn’t until John sits that he notices her eyes are unusually glazed and unfocused. It takes John a moment but it doesn’t require a genius to see that she’s blind. A blind seer. Finally a cliché.

“He’s waiting you know,” she opens. John’s perplexion likely shows so clearly on his face it can be sensed across the table.

“Waiting? You mean, for me to find him?” John’s confusion only grows. “Wait, how did you know there was a him, I haven’t told you why I’ve come.”

“You’re looking for someone but that’s not what I meant,” she replies with a small smile and begins to pour tea into one of the cups. She adds milk and no sugar, just as John takes it, and places the cup in the saucer in front of him.

Admittedly, she does have his attention. John wonders how he keeps falling for these gimmicks.

“He’s waiting for you,” she repeats, pouring tea for herself.

“Yes, so you’ve said,” John replies, his face sliding easily into his threatening smile, which is entirely lost on the Madame. “How about you tell me if you know how I could find him?“

“Your fears are the same,” she says instead. “Isn’t that a bit silly?” She continues to smile, simultaneously staring directly at him and not at all.

John wants to know why everything is creeping the hell out of him lately.

“Look, ‘Madame Glinda’, can you tell me where my–“ he draws up short momentarily not sure what term to use and feeling idiotic before continuing with “–Sherlock. Can you tell me where Sherlock is, or can’t you?”

“Take care with your phrasing dear, your misuse of labels has hurt him in the past,” she responds, sipping her tea. She is really beginning to seem like a Mrs Hudson impersonation. And what the hell did that mean?

“Are you honestly giving me relationship advice right now?”

“To be fair Dr Watson, that is normally what’s asked of me.”

John tries to communicate as much impatience as possible with his aggravated sigh. “Can you or can you not help me?”

She seems to momentarily consider prior to responding. “You will need to finish the first task, first.”

“What first task?” Am I in a myth, John wonders. “You mean, I have to solve the case first?”

“The first wants to replace what was taken. The other has gone below.” The smile has never left her face. She returns her cup to its saucer to remove something from her pocket, which she holds out to him like an offering. It’s a bloody red dianthus.

“Great. I think I’ve had just about enough of this.” John rises to his feet, entirely finished with this useless and vaguely unsettling encounter.

“I’ll see myself out, stay cryptic,” John says, unceremoniously dumping the cash for the session on the table and making a beeline for the door. How was he meant to solve this mess without Sherlock? He didn’t have a clue.

He hears soft giggling through the hanging beads behind him.

“I wouldn’t go back, if I were you,” she calls out after him. John’s officially sick of the cliché experience.

+

The sun is setting and he has wasted his afternoon seeing a psychic – him, paying for a psychic! – receiving vague romantic relationship advice when he should have been trying to find Sherlock. There won’t be much of a romantic relationship left to salvage without the other member of it. John tries not to think about what Sherlock being gone for this long means and fails spectacularly.

And what was he meant to do about it? The psychic had told him to solve the case. Or, so he had interpreted. Where to go, and what to do? Back to Baker Street, only to stew in his empty flat, or back to the house where people and animals kept disappearing?

Kept disappearing. Multiple disappearances. John stops in his tracks outside of the flat. He suddenly feels like he’s onto something. Don’t bad things normally come in threes?

On a whim John calls Dr Davenshaw, the original source of his troubles.

She answers on the third ring. “Dr Watson? Have you found your partner yet?”

Partner, John muses. That doesn’t sound half bad. 

“No, he’s still missing. Speaking of which, what else am I missing here?” John speaks with command, his ‘Captain Watson’ voice as Sherlock calls it, while walking briskly.

“What do you mean - missing?” she asks, her voice tenuous.

“Just like when you didn’t give us all the facts around Howard’s disappearance, leaving out that bit about the flowers. I think there’s still more you neglected to mention,” John guesses largely on a hunch but the silence on the other end seems to say he’s right.

John, feeling confident, launches forward on another instinct, “How did your husband die, Dr Davenshaw?”

Another meaningful silence from the other end.

“To be clear, I didn’t mean to– to leave you without all the information. Just that it’s still difficult for me to discuss...“ she trails off but if John wasn’t out of patience before, he truly is now. 

“Spare me the details then but tell me what happened. It was in the house, wasn’t it?” John asks and knows for sure this time that he’s right.

“Yes,” she chokes out. “He was– he was murdered. We found his body in the living room.”

John inhales sharply. “Thank you, Dr Davenshaw,” he says, disconnecting the call. Something was definitely going on with his favourite bungalow. He enters the nearest tube station with every intention of finding out what. 

+

The house is once again abandoned when he arrives. The officers have interviewed neighbours and come up with nothing, and Dr Davenshaw has long since dealt with Howard and returned to her friend’s.

John tries to remember how he and Sherlock entered the previous night. Quietly and quickly. Maybe he’d try to be quieter this time. He unlocks the door and closes it behind him. The main hallway looms in front of him. In contrast with the waning light from outside, the open doorway they had uncovered earlier appears as though it leads to a dark abyss.

He leaves the lights off and softly moves towards the entrance to the extra bedroom.

He steps lightly over the threshold, his eyes slowly adjusting.

Now that it’s much darker outside he can see multiple holes in the wall and wallpaper along the three inner sides of the room that allow in some light to the otherwise completely pitch black room. 

The room is unchanged from earlier in the day. Empty aside from an old bed and curtains. John’s heart feels heavy, slowly pounding in his chest.

Except.

John studies the bed frame, moving slowly further into the room till he is standing in close proximity to the back wall and facing out towards the door.

The bed frame had been–

The bed frame had been parallel to the sidewall when they’d been in earlier.

Maybe Greg or the officers had moved it?

The frame is now diagonal across the floor. John moves to step closer to see–

John covers his ears as a screeching sound of metal dragging against wood rings out through the room – the bed frame scratching across the floor - as he jumps backwards, immediately hiding behind the curtains. They’re thin enough that he can stare out from behind them, not quite believing–

John’s hand is perfectly still on the curtain. 

Something is crawling out from beneath the frame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this rate, I may actually have this wrapped up in time for Halloween (the dream).


	3. Chapter 3

John blinks rapidly, willing his eyes to see something besides the impossibility of a form emerging from beneath the bed frame. Despite his efforts, reality does not change. John holds his breath and his body ramrod straight in the tight space behind the curtain. His entire focus is on the thing creeping up from the floor. All John is able to make out is the shape of a person.

Except. The shape of a person. This isn’t supernatural at all, John realizes with a start. It’s merely a man, and he hasn’t truly materialized from beneath the bed. Now that the person has fully risen from the ground, John can see that there is in fact an opening in the floor. An opening in the floor accessed by a hatch, which had moved the bed when opened, and is clearly where the man has appeared. A hidden space within a hidden room - God, he should have known.

John would kick himself if he could for almost falling for all the bloody haunted house speculation and continues to watch on with trepidation. A man hiding in the house underneath the floorboards? Now he really had seen everything. But how had this person been moving in and out at will? The room had been entirely enclosed before they’d found the door. 

The answer to this mystery is shortly revealed before his eyes. The man moves silently to the side of the room closest to the living room, and slides back a panel along the bottom of the wall. Similar to the hatch in the floor, John hadn’t noticed any sign of the panel previously. It is just high enough for someone to shimmy out of on their stomach. Instead of shimming however, the man kneels to peer out of the opening presumably to see if anyone is in the living room. He then moves the panel back into place, and presses his eyes to the various holes in the room’s walls. Once satisfied, he exits the room through the open door.

John is still frozen in place. He should incapacitate the man before he gets too far, but then where is Sherlock? The words from his psychic visit return to him with sudden clarity. He’s below - he’s under the floorboards, obviously! Forgetting the danger lurking just outside the room, John moves quickly out from behind the curtain until he’s gazing down through the opening in the floor. He can see a ladder leading into what appears to be a small crawl space but John can’t see further. Sherlock must be in there somewhere.

His worry spurring him into action, he immediately begins to descend the small ladder. No sooner than when he’s on the lower rungs does his leg make contact with what feels like a body. John reaches out blindly with his hand, feeling his way along a coat. Yes, definitely a body. A very still body.

His heart clenches in his chest. John’s breathing begins to come in loud puffs. If Sherlock is – if Sherlock is – he’ll _kill_ him, he’ll fucking kill that man –

Suddenly, a pair of hands reach out to grab his own in the dark and John on instinct squeezes back.

He’d know those ridiculously large palms anywhere.

The pair of hands is odd though. John feels up the wrist and realizes they’re tied together and behind Sherlock’s back. Sherlock is lying on his front and tied up. Oh God, has he been like this _all day_?

“Sherlock,” John whispers, wanting desperately to know the other man is safe and sound.

“Shh,” Sherlock responds while making what appears to be an upwards indication with his hands. Right, they still had to deal with that. First things first however.

John grabs onto Sherlock and begins to lift, pushing him upwards. Sherlock is able to climb the ladder with his hands behind his back if John supports him, lightly touching his sides. John has never been more relieved to touch another a human being in his life. 

John follows closely behind. Once aboveground, he can see Sherlock in full view and is overwhelmed by the sight of him. He pulls Sherlock to him tightly, breathing him in. Sherlock leans into the hug as best he can with his restraints, but soon cries out, “John! Behind – “

Before he can finish his warning, the ghost–man John had inconveniently forgotten about has swung at him. John just manages to push Sherlock out of the way, but is less successful with his own evasion. His quick movement causes the man to miss, but a knife slices across his leg regardless. John gasps in pain, causing Sherlock to cry out in alarm. While the room is dark John can still make out the knife the man has in one hand, which is coming towards him once more.

John is prepared this time around and easily dodges the weapon while disarming the man, grabbing his arm and twisting. The man drops the knife, but elbows John hard enough in the face that he has the advantage to punch him a moment later. John is struck hard onto his back, and scrambles backwards as the man advances with his reclaimed knife. 

Just as John thinks he’ll have to fight him off from a clear disadvantage, Sherlock headbutts the man so hard from behind he goes crashing forwards. The knife flies from his hand, skittering across the floor.

The man is completely knocked out cold.

John, still panting, lets out a sigh of relief.

“Please refrain from a ‘now that’s using your head’ pun, John,” Sherlock says with a rough voice.

John feels himself grinning from ear to ear. Sherlock moves towards him and crouches to the ground with his bound hands behind his back, clearly focused on John’s leg wound.

“John, are you hurt? John?”

John laughs. “It’s just a graze. And you’re the one we should be worrying about.“

“Never mind me. He should be grateful he didn’t do you any real damage,” Sherlock mutters darkly, glancing over to the incapacitated man on the floor.

John can’t help but be amused that they had both shared the exact same thought for each other, but then suddenly realizes - “Hey, wait a minute, isn’t he that the bloke from the family photos?”

Sherlock smiles far too wide for someone who has very recently been kidnapped and held hostage in a crawlspace for almost 24 hours. Still, he sighs dramatically. “And here I’d thought you finding me meant you’d solved the case on your own. “

Some things never change.

“Time to call Lestrade, wouldn’t you say?”

+

When Sherlock waltzes back into their flat later that evening, John can’t take his eyes off him. It had only been a day, but it had been an entire day thinking that the most important person in the world to him had disappeared without a trace. He had been reluctant to be so soon separated, but Sherlock needed to go in to the station and John had needed to look after his own wound. All it required in the end was a heavily padded bandage and he’d be healed in no time.

Sherlock smiles at him pleasantly as he walks into the living room, removing his coat and gloves with efficiency.

“So, are you going to explain to me what you told Lestrade?” John asks. He’s embarrassed to admit he’d forgotten a bit about the actual case in light of Sherlock being safe, but now John has a lot of questions. And this was his favourite part - Sherlock getting to flex his intellectual prowess for John to admire.

“Oh, how I solved it you mean?”

John snorts. 

“What?” Sherlock asks defensively.

“You were with the guy in the house Sherlock, seems like a pretty important clue to have that we went without.”

“Hm, I’ll concede the point.”

“And God, Sherlock how on earth did you stand being in there with him?” John asks, derailing them unintentionally. The thought of Sherlock lying side by side with that creep for an entire day makes his skin crawl.

“Oh don’t worry about that. After he attacked you, he used an animal tranquilizer on me that he’d stolen from the fridge. Remember our Dr Davenshaw and her unusual pet owner habits? I was out for most of the day and only came to a bit before you arrived on the scene. I pretended to still be out when in the space with him, of course.”

Sherlock gives the general impression that the entire experience was rather unremarkable. John should probably have expected as much. 

“So, the man then. From the family photos. Does this mean he was the husband’s brother?” John questions, steering them back on track to discussing the case.

“Yes John, not only did our client neglect to mention that her husband’s death had been a murder, she also forgot to mention that his killer was still at large, and that his brother had disappeared shortly thereafter. This of course made him the prime suspect in the case. It’s simple really - the brother killed Dr Davenshaw’s husband in presumably an unplanned fit of rage. The motive for this is likely tied to their parents leaving Charles everything and his brother nothing. The brother knew there was a room in the house that Dr Davenshaw and her daughter would be unaware of. Knowing he had incriminated himself quite thoroughly, he went into hiding in the house. He knew he could enter and exit the room from the living room closet, and I suppose it worked out rather well for him.”

John, stunned, still manages to choke out, “Well, up until a certain point you mean.”

Sherlock grins, “Yes, up until now. He knew we were investigating the house and decided to get us out of the picture as well. Or at the very least, me.”

“Did he intend to kill you?” John asks, his teeth set on edge at the very thought of it.

“I think, like the dog and his brother, he wasn’t exactly planning ahead. Not the world’s most forward thinker I’d say.”

Something else occurs to John.

“The red dianthus, those flowers – why would he go to the trouble to leave those?”

Sherlock draws the flower in question from his jacket pocket. John recognizes it as the one last left on the kitchen table. He holds it up delicately, passing it to John. “Sentiment.”

John blinks, but thinks he gets it.

“You mean…? He was in love with Dr Davenshaw?”

“Precisely. He was jealous of his brother in more ways than one. Out of his frankly terrifying devotion for our client, he continued his brother’s tradition of leaving her a dianthus from the garden.”

“Brilliant,” John says, and Sherlock glows with pride.

“And the dog?” John asks.

“The dog likely barked at him when he was trying to move about unnoticed during the day, or caught on to the fact that there was something living in the wall. For whatever reason, he decided he needed to silence it. “ At this Sherlock looks decidedly less gleeful, a cold glint in his eye.

John eyes the red dianthus in his palm. Unbidden, a memory of a phrase spoken in this exact living room comes to him.

“Redbeard.”

Sherlock looks startled. John considers his deduction a success then. 

“Sorry, what?”

“Redbeard. Yes. The name of your childhood pet,” John repeats, very pleased with himself. 

Sherlock is now completely thrown. “How - ? Did Mycroft tell you?”

“No, he didn’t. “ In a mock imperious tone John continues, “Frankly, it was obvious, how did I not see it before.”

He pauses before continuing, recognizing this is obviously a sensitive subject. 

“It was all about her losing her pet, that’s why you wanted to take the case,” John concludes with confidence. 

Sherlock’s shocked expression transforms completely. He’s now smiling his real, genuine smile, and his eyes are shining with unconcealed affection (the kind that still bowls John over whenever he sees it.)

“Very good John. Well reasoned.” John has a feeling there’s going to be a caveat to this remark. 

“However, as always you see, but you do not observe.”

And there it is. The phrase John always longs to hear. “What? What have I missed?”

“It’s not just about the dog John, though yes, maybe it is a bit. Redbeard, my dog, now always reminds me of – well, something Mycroft has paired in my mind – “

He pauses, clasping his hands behind his back and biting his lip. John has never seen him display so many nervous tells all at once.

“I don’t handle loss well. I’m…. I’m afraid of – losing things.”

John still doesn’t understand.

“You’re right, I honestly don’t observe, how does being afraid of losing things relate to you taking a case about a dog?”

Sherlock looks almost shy. John is now the one completely flummoxed.

“You’re abnormally attracted to dangerous people and situations, John. We hadn’t yet … and we hadn’t had a case in so long and, you weren’t – But then, as suspected, when you thought we were in danger you finally made a move – “

John finally, finally, understands.

“You were afraid of losing me? Because we hadn’t had any cases? And because of - of - well, that?”

Sherlock slowly turns beet red, all across his face and neck, which John finds both astonishing and adorable. 

“You mean to tell me that this whole time you’ve been waiting for me to –“

“Yes, John.” The flush on his cheeks only grows worse.

“Why didn’t you say?” John asks, still completely amazed.

“This isn’t exactly my area.” Sherlock is looking anywhere but at him. John has screwed this all up royally. John had been afraid of pushing him too far, pushing him away, and Sherlock had been afraid that it had meant -

“Our fears are the same,” John repeats, and damn, maybe the house hadn’t been haunted but that psychic had been strangely on point.

Sherlock finally looks at him to lift one eyebrow inquisitively. “You mean you were afraid of losing me, by - by going further?”

“Yes,” John says and starts to laugh, at his own foolishness and in relief.

“Well, anyway, I suppose it’s for the best then,” John comments.

“What?” Sherlock is looking slightly more sure of himself again, a small smile beginning in the corners of his mouth.

“That we didn’t end up shagging in front of the ghost.”

There’s a beat and then both men dissolve into quiet chuckling (which turn into giggles for John). It’s like the first night all over again when they’d laughed together in the corridor. All at once they move towards one another.

They have an entire conversation silently just reaching for each other’s arms, gripping their forearms loosely.

_Have you been waiting for me?_

_Yes, I’ve been waiting for you._

_We’ve both been very silly then._

“John,” Sherlock says aloud. “I’d very much like for you to take me to bed now.”

John feels like a dam finally breaking, kissing upwards into Sherlock’s mouth just like they had the other night in the house. He licks in between his lips, a kind of kissing he had previously rarely been brave enough to try with Sherlock, and Sherlock opens his mouth with moan.

In between quick, sweet kisses, Sherlock comments, “so it’s not just danger, then?”

He means what makes John act like this, but he also means much more. 

John catches Sherlock’s lower lip between his teeth and pulls.

“No, love. It’s you. It’s always you.”

Sherlock flushes with pleasure, possibly at being called ‘love’ for the first time, possibly because of the overall sentiment.

John kisses him one last time before leading him down the hall.

+

John had fallen asleep with his front pressed warmly up against a long, thin back, but by the next morning he is empty handed. There is, however, a cup of tea and the day’s newspaper laid out on the bedside table. 

In the tea saucer, carefully placed next to the cup, is a red dianthus. John can’t tell if he should be disturbed or touched. Regardless of what he should be, a wide smile has creeped all the way across his face.

The smile is still firmly in place by the time Sherlock reenters the bedroom.

“Oh, you’re up,” he says nonchalantly, but John is more than capable of seeing through these things now.

“What’s all this?” John motions to his morning offerings. 

“Oh, that, I just thought…Traditions aren’t so bad are they?” Sherlock hedges, leaning one knee on the bed where John is still lying down.

“We don’t have a garden of course, and I doubt you’d really be interested in _flowers_ anyway –“

“It’s perfect,” John says, cutting him off.

“Yes?” Sherlock tentatively agrees and asks. John slides further backwards, making room in the bed, and Sherlock gladly climbs back in.

“Did you know this dianthus is called a Sweet William?” Sherlock murmurs.

John giggles. “You don’t say?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, kissing him sweetly.

The tea going cold was soon to be part of this tradition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so some credit is due! Someone actually messaged me on tumblr to ask me about this, and yes, the layout of the house is based on the house in the movie The Pact (to mention it earlier would have spoiled the ending a bit lol). If you're worried that I've now spoiled The Pact for you (sorry), the plot is at least not at all similar? 
> 
> Also, in case anyone is curious, [ this is what sweet william / red dianthus looks like ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dianthus_barbatus) (also really people just call them carnations, but dianthus just sounds way better?? Red Carnation just does not have the same ring to it)
> 
> Hope you all had a good time with this lil John & Sherlock investigate a spooky house fic and enjoy your Halloween month ~


End file.
